I Break, You Don't
by irelandrain74
Summary: When Blaine and Kurt are in a wreck, Kurt suddenly has to be the strong one. Klaine. Angsty hurt/comfort with a side of fluff in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi there. I've been writing my own stuff for years but this is my first fanfiction ever! I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, but I would love your opinions. :) If you like this, I'll continue it with some proper hurt/comfort. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!**

Kurt is in the passenger seat of my Z3 when I crash it.

It is a clear, sunny day; I am drunk only with my feelings for the boy next to me; I'm doing 35 in a 40; there are no other cars around. My boyfriend and I are on our way back from watching _Thor. _The movie was my pick, of course – Kurt had wanted to make organic beignets – but the promise of Chris Hemsworth's naked torso in 3D (as well as a dark theatre in which to get handsy) had eventually made him give in. On the drive home, Kurt complains about Natalie Portman's horrible performance ("Figured she'd outdone herself in _Black _Swan so why bother!") and I turn to smile at him, to drink him in, and my right tire slips into an invisible ditch, covered over with damp leaves.

The next thirty seconds are some of my longest. The car drops with a thud. I turn the wheel gently to the left, but the ditch is too deep. Kurt screams. I pump the brakes frantically, but too late – there is a symphony of noise, cracking and ripping and thumping, as first tree limbs and then the white boards of a privacy fence slam into the windshield, obscuring my vision. I slam into my door as the backside of the car grazes a telephone pole. I lose the feeling in my arms. And then – as if by some miracle – the ditch ends, and the turned wheel pulls my car back onto the road.

I barely manage to pull into the driveway of the house which until recently had a white privacy fence and instantly reach for Kurt, bleating his name like a lost lamb. My arms still feel numb; my whole body does, really – and I forget to breathe until his gorgeous blue eyes flutter open.

"My gosh, were you unconscious?" I ask, my chest heaving with relief.

"N-n-no, just terrified," he answers, and wraps his hand around mine. The warmth of his skin reminds me that I have hands, and I start shaking violently, my throat constricting. I can hear someone yelling from behind us and I pull away from Kurt and struggle to open my car door, nearly falling out of it and stumbling when my feet hit the gravel driveway.

It's an older woman with no make-up and a Tweety bird t-shirt. As soon as I answer her "are you OK?" she asks what happened.

"I don't, I don't know what happened," I manage. My throat keeps getting tighter with tears that aren't ready to fall.

"HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?" The woman yells, suddenly angry.

"I – I –"

"THAT FENCE WAS THREE FEET OFF THE ROAD! MY DOGS ARE GOING TO GET OUT!"

"I – the ditch – I got pulled -" It's at that moment that I start to see the damage I've done – there are splintered pieces of whitewashed wood literally all over the road, and what was once fifteen feet of privacy fence is now two ragged planks. "Oh my gosh." The words come out as little more than a whisper. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh." I feel my body go shockingly numb for the second time in three minutes and my breath comes heavy and fast.

"Oh, you're OK, it's OK, it'll all be OK," Tweety-woman says, rapidly changing her tune for a second time.

"I need to make sure my boyfriend is OK," I gasp out, turning resolutely around and walking back towards my Z3. I faintly hear the woman say she'll call someone as I open my door.

Kurt is breathing quickly, his chest rising and falling at a bizarre rate. His eyes are fixed on mine immediately. "Are you OK? I can't believe I didn't – "

"Oh my gosh, you're bleeding." I point with shaking hands to the dime-sized red spot on the knee of Kurt's white riding pants.

"I'm fi – " He gasps loudly, and I'm babbling: _what's wrong, what hurts_ – "Blaine, your arm – " – _I'm so sorry, what's wrong, what's_ – Kurt grabs my left hand and pulls my arm towards him. I groan as he tries to pull it straight and he stops, his eyes wide. I look down at my half-outstretched arm, where my elbow is purpling at an alarming rate, and try using it to pull myself closer to Kurt. The primal yell that comes out of my chest shocks me – it hurts like hell but I'm still so numb - and Kurt drops my hand quickly, tears swimming in his seafoam eyes. When I see Kurt losing it, I can't keep the tears back a second longer – they overwhelm me, and I break down like the world is ending. I'm sobbing so hard it's physically painful, my lungs aching from the impact. I bow my head into the steering wheel, my whole body shaking.

"Blaine," Kurt says softly. The tenderness of his voice only increases my howling. His hand – delicate, long-fingered – flutters onto my back, then starts making slow, lazy circles. I try to get a hold of myself, gasping, as he rubs my back. "Blaine," he says again, massaging my shoulder with one hand.

I look up at him; the trails of tears mar his cream skin, reddened with crying. "I could have killed you," I manage through the crying, my words catching. "I could have lost you, Kurt, it would have been my fault, you could have died, I can't live without you." I turn to bury my face in the steering wheel again, but Kurt's hand catches my chin.

"Look at me, Blaine. I'm right here. I'm fine. I _love_ you."

And all I can do is stare into his beautiful eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: First of all, thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who reviewed and alerted! Second - sorry for the dummy chapter 2 post yesterday. was all a mess and wouldn't attach this document to chapter 2, so a lot of you got alerts and there was nothing here. Sorry, and I hope this makes up for it! As always thanks for reading - and _please_, let me know what you think. :)**

There are sirens approaching as Blaine collapses into me, convulsing with tears against my sweater. I rub awkward circles into his muscled back, unsure of what else to do. My chin is perched atop his head, my own tears slipping silently into his curly mane. The smell of it all - tears and cologne and more than anything, Blaine's damp hair - is an abstract comfort in all this madness and I can't bring myself to move.

There is a sharp knock at Blaine's window - I see for the first time that the glass is cracked - and the boy in my arms starts violently. I hold him against me and gesture the knocker - a poor old bag wearing a... Tweety bird shirt? - over to my window instead. I try the power window without much hope, but it rolls down after a moment.

"I called 911," the woman says simply. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine, but he wasn't as lucky," I say, nodding toward my boyfriend, who is still wracked with sobs. "I think he broke his arm."

"I told 911 I didn't think anyone was injured so make sure you tell them that when they get here. I'll be back when they arrive." The Tweety woman ambles back towards her house and it strikes me that my dad and Carole would freak out if they heard about a crashed Z3 on this road. I struggle to wiggle my hand into my riding pants pocket for my phone without disturbing Blaine's left arm. I dial them and try to keep my voice calm.

Finn answers, for which I am grateful. It means not starting the phone call with hysteria. "Finn, it's Kurt."

"Yeah, dude, we have caller ID. Wait, where are you? You sound awful."

So much for keeping my voice calm. "Blaine and I were in a wreck."

"Oh my gosh, are you OK? What happened?"

"I don't know, Finn, we went through a fence. I'm fine but Blaine's hurt his arm and the car is a mess and they called 911 and - oh Lord, here comes a fire truck. I've got to go, we're in the turn on Broad Run, let Dad and Carole know, bye." I toss my phone onto the dash and wince as it skids on shards of windshield.

"Blaine, baby," I mutter into my boyfriend's hair. I give him a gentle squeeze and he looks up at me. Tears have matted his long, black lashes and his cinnamon eyes are glassy with crying. His breath is still gasping and desperate. "The police are getting here. Can you get your driver's license for me? Where do you keep your insurance?"

He hiccups painfully and nods at the glove compartment. I pop it open as he moves to fish out his wallet. There's a big leather pouch in the compartment on top of a few drive-thru napkins and I pull it out, flipping it open to find the most current insurance and registration. Blaine is still trying to use his right hand to get his wallet out of his left back pocket. When he manages I take it from him, sliding his license out of its place and quieting the pang I feel when I see a picture of myself tucked in with the student ID and old concert tickets.

"What am I going to do, Kurt? My parents are going to kill me –"

"Shhh. You're going to be OK, that's all that matters." I can see a firefighter and a policeman approaching through the cracked glass of Blaine's window.

"But the car – and the fence -" he gasps.

"That's why you have insurance, honey. Stay here a minute, I've got to go deal with the cops, OK?" I lean to press a kiss onto the top of Blaine's head.

My door sticks at first, resisting my efforts. I leverage a knee against it and try again; there's an ugly metallic noise, but the door opens and I climb out. Several firemen are starting to drag huge chunks of fence off of the main road. I rub at my cheeks, brushing the tear-tracks away, and meet the authorities.

"Are you OK?" the firefighter asks.

"Yes, I'm fine, but my boyfriend –"

"Were you the driver, son?" the cop chimes in.

"No, my boyfriend – "

"Well, we'll need to speak with him, then, we need his license and registration –"

"I _have_ all that." I wave the papers obnoxiously, surprised at my own insistence. If their raised eyebrows are any indication, it surprises the cop and the fireman, too. "I have his license and insurance and registration. He's _hurt_, I think he might have broken his arm, and he's extremely shaken right now so I will answer your questions."

The firefighter drifts past me toward the car, presumably to check on Blaine's arm. "You were with him at the time of the accident?" the cop asks, bringing up a yellow legal pad.

"Yes…"

Forty-five minutes later, the Andersons, Dad, Carole, and I are standing alongside Blaine, watching as his black Z3 is loaded onto the tow truck. The once-shiny jet paint is scarred with white, the nose on the passenger side crumpled in on itself. I squeeze Blaine's right hand and he squeezes back weakly.

The chaos is over. The fire truck and cop car are gone, the road cleared of splintered wood. The insurance information has been exchanged with Tweety woman. Blaine's arm is bound in a sling and an ice pack is tied loosely to his elbow. His expression is one of numbness, a striking contrast to his earlier breakdown. He loves this car – to the point of bi-weekly washings and monthly waxes – and I can tell it's hard for him to see it this way.

When the car is finally secure on the back of the tow truck, Mrs. Anderson starts fussing about getting Blaine to the ER. I squeeze his hand one more time, hard, and mouth "I love you."

He doesn't let go of my hand. "Couldn't Kurt come with us?" Blaine asks. His voice startles me – he's hardly talked in the past half-hour.

"Oh, don't you think Kurt's had quite a long enough day already?" his mother starts. She gives me a pointed look – _don't disagree._

"I would be more than happy to come along," I answer. I ignore the looks his parents give me. They glance awkwardly at Dad and Carole, who nod their approval. I fake enthusiasm."It's settled then. Let's get you all bandaged up!" I open his parent's SUV door for Blaine before sliding into the seat next to him.

As the car starts moving, I feel my boyfriend grab my hand yet again. He whispers "thank you" before laying back against his seat. Blaine had spent the first six months of our relationship being there when I needed him. I would sure as hell be there for him if he needed me.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry it's been a while, guys! I was on vacation. As always, please, please review and let me know what you think. Thank you so much for reading!**

The ride back home from the hospital is nothing short of uncomfortable.

Mr. Anderson is dead silent and gripping the steering wheel like it'll turn into a snake unless he chokes it out. Mrs. Anderson speaks only occasionally – "still OK, Blaine?" – and in the side mirror I can see that her lips are pursed tight. She, like her husband, refuses to make eye contact with me.

Blaine, meanwhile, is feeling no pain. His eyes are half-lidded and his words come out slurred, but they're still clear enough that everyone in the car can make out what he's saying. "I've got a wing, Kurt. A WING! LOOK!" Blaine is oddly handsy under the influence of the pain-killers and keeps grabbing my thigh every five seconds, even though he's already got my full attention. He flaps his cast arm back and forth, eyebrows raised as he looks for my approval.

"Yes, you've got a wing. Isn't that nice?" My voice is strained and I pat the hand still on my thigh before gently removing it.

Blaine slaps the hand straight back onto my thigh, so hard that it makes a noise and I see Mr. Anderson jump a little. "Baaaaby, what's wrong? Is it because you're afraid of birds?" His eyebrows rise again, his face accusing this time. I can't help but smile just a little bit. "It's OK, baaaby, I'm not a bird, I just have a wing."

"Oh, that's good," I say, hoping to placate him. It seems to work – he lays his head back against the seat, his eyes closing, and I slide the hand off of my thigh for what feels like the fifteenth time during the car ride. It finally stays.

The hospital visit had been an awkward affair. Blaine could only take two people into the ER with him, and he had refused to let go of my hand. I had smiled apologetically at the Andersons, and they had grudgingly decided that Mr. Anderson would stay in the waiting area. The adrenaline shock of the wreck had worn off during the drive to the ER, and Blaine was sweaty with pain by the time the doctor saw him. There was the usual dance of medical histories and vital checks, followed by x-rays. Blaine had broken his elbow and the doctor wanted to insert pins to make sure it healed properly.

Mrs. Anderson had pitched a small fit, asking if surgery was absolutely necessary, and was assured by the doctor that it was if her son wanted to regain full use of his elbow as fast as possible. During the outburst, Blaine had continued to hold onto my hand – he had barely let go of me since the accident – and whisper "I love you"s. I returned the sentiment, murmuring "you'll be fine"s to try and calm my own nerves.

And so my boyfriend had been wheeled down the hall to be knocked out for elbow surgery, leaving his mother and I alone in the hospital hallway.

Mrs. Anderson had refused to meet my eyes for the first several moments, silently checking her nails. She finally looked up when the sole of my shoe caught on the hospital's waxed floor. "I'm glad you're OK."

It took me a minute to realize that this was the first time either of the Andersons had said anything at all about _me_ being in the wreck. "Thank you. I'm so sorry Blaine was hurt. I really hope he heals quickly. I'll help him any way I can, of course – I can carry his books and drive us and I'll be happy to stay with him while you and Mr. Anderson are at work."

"That's sweet," she'd said, with a dismissive wave of her hand that indicated she thought it was anything but. "Listen, Kurt, I know Blaine really likes you, but you understand that we have certain… appearances to keep up."

I took a step back and into the hallway wall. "I'm afraid I don't understand at all."

Blaine's mother had pressed closer, boxing me in. "We're fine with Blaine being gay. But not everyone in our neighborhood feels the same. It's going to create enough of a stir in Oakbridge Estates when they hear that the Anderson boy got into a wreck with his _boyfriend_." The way she spat the word out like it tasted bad made me cringe. "You know how people are. I can only imagine the tongue-wagging that will go on if you show up at our door in a nurse costume."

I blinked, trying to process the woman's words. "You're ashamed of him. Of us."

"Of course we're not! We just want him to be safe." Her voice had been strained, and her smile forced.

"That's not what this is about. You know that I want him safe every bit as bad as you do, and I would never do anything I thought would put him in jeopardy! This is about your reputation! I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect, but I will be around for as long as Blaine wants me, no matter what it does to your social standing." I turned and started for the bathroom.

"Kurt – wait -"

I had half-jogged to the restroom and lingered there for as long as I could stand, letting the few tears I had left after the wreck flow. When I came out and into the waiting room, Mrs. Anderson had taken to avoiding my gaze again and Mr. Anderson was as cold as ever. We had waited in silence until Blaine came out of surgery, buzzed with the aftereffects of the drugs but more than ready to get home.

And now, here we are in the car, pretending for the sake of the real victim that nothing had happened.

"Hey Kurt?" Blaine's voice is weaker now, quiet.

"Yes?"

"You're coming over tomorrow, right?" I glance up at the rearview mirror and see Mrs. Anderson's face contort with disapproval. I take in a deep breath before I speak, so deep that Blaine questions – "Kurt?"

"Of course I am." I look over with a wavery smile to see that his eyes are still closed.

"I love you, Kurt," he sighs, and nuzzles further into the seat.

The words make me feel so warm I can almost ignore the glares of the couple in the front seat.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry these updates take so long, everyone. Thank all of you for the alerts and reviews! I'm still really unsure about this fic - I think I write better fluff than hurt/comfort and angst, so these are a struggle for me. If you can tell me what I'm doing wrong - or right - I'd really appreciate it. Thanks as always for reading, and your reviews are truly the only thing keeping me writing this fic.**

The first three days we don't have to sneak.

The doctor doesn't want Blaine left alone while he's on the really powerful painkillers, and the Andersons are apparently more willing to risk embarrassing themselves in front of the entire neighborhood than miss work. Our exchanges at the door are tense each morning and evening – nothing more than a few words about what Blaine's allowed to eat, or when he needs his next pill. The more strict instructions have nothing to do with caring for their son. I'm told to park across the street, not in their driveway, and I'm ushered in and out of the house so quickly, my hair is literally ruffled by the created breeze. And when I show up the first day wearing an ascot, I get a brief, half-begging sermon about dressing "more like some guy friend of Blaine's."

It takes everything I have to squelch my feelings – the anger, the resentment, the sheer horror that this is what my beautiful boyfriend has been living with for seventeen years – but I manage, because Blaine doesn't need any more stress in his life.

I mostly watch him sleep those first days. The painkillers have him knocked out most of the time. He's got a makeshift bed on the couch in the pretty but uncomfortable living room and sleeps with his mouth open and his face pressed into a Buzz Lightyear pillowcase propped against the couch's arm rest. It takes a while to get used to seeing him like this – I'm so used to his overwhelming dapperness – but the eight and a half hours a day I spend watching him snore in sweats and t-shirts with a head full of ungelled curls make him somehow more perfect.

Every time he wakes up, he immediately looks for me and smiles, the warm, soft kind of smile he wore the first time he told me he loved me. "Hi, there," I say, smiling back. But his dreamy expression never stays – I watch, time and again, as he wonders why he's waking up to me, why he's on the couch, why he can't move his – ouch – and then see the horror of the wreck replaying in his mind.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," he always says.

"You have no reason to be sorry," I tell him, brushing the curls back from his forehead.

On the fourth day, I turn up at the Anderson house at 7:30 AM only to be told to go home. "He's off the Vicodin," Mrs. Anderson explains. "He should be fine until we get home, now."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. But I'm already here – he still needs help fixing food and I'm sure he's going to get bored with nothing but the TV –"

"Thank you for your help, Kurt. We'll see you later." Mr. Anderson appears behind his wife with an expression that's somewhere between stern and terrifying. I pretty much have no choice but to turn around and get back in my Navigator.

I just sit in the car for a minute, trying to steel myself for the drive back home. The anxiety of the crash lingers heavily, and while I've gotten much better over the past several days, I'm still incredibly tense every time I'm in a vehicle. While I'm waiting, willing the tingling nerves out of my fingers, I see the Andersons' Escalade pull out of the driveway.

I jump when my phone blares "What Kind of Fool."

"Hey… where are you this morning?" Blaine's voice is sleepy on the other end. "Kurt?"

"Um, did your parents not say anything…?"

"They just said you couldn't make it. I wanted to make sure you were OK." I realize I've been silent too long when he nudges again."Kurt?"

"Um, yes. I'm fine. I'm good," I lie. So the Andersons are going to throw me under the bus, huh? I find myself squeezing the steering wheel so tightly, my hands start to hurt.

"Oh, thank goodness. I just wasn't sure… well, you've been here so much lately. And I've been a mess…"

"You've been fine, Blaine. You had surgery three days ago, for the love of Gaga."

"I know, but you've been here every day and I've been asleep – but I'm off the Vicodin today, and I'm kind of aware now, at least. I know it's silly when you've been here every day but this is the first time I've been coherent in a while and… I _miss_ you."

"Blaine." His name comes out as a sigh. "I miss you, too."

"I'm sorry, I'm being needy, aren't I?" he asks, a catch in his voice.

"_What?_ No. Blaine. Are you serious?"

I can hear his breath in the pause. "I'm sorry. I'm just… this whole wreck thing has really messed with my head. Like, right now, there is a Navigator parked across the street, and I thought for just a minute – holy crap, it is you. Kurt? What's going on?"

"I'm... really not sure," I answer honestly.

"Are you – will you come in if I open the door?"

I sigh heavily. "Yes." The phone clicks off, and I force myself to open my car door and start across the street to the Anderson residence for the second time in half an hour.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So, you guys have the anon 'Critic' to thank for this. I have pretty much no time, so I gave up sleep last night to write this. :) I'm still unsure of my angst writing, but this feels right. I'm sorry it took so long to update - and while I can't promise anything, I'm going to try really hard to update quicker this time. Thanks to each and every one of you that has alerted and favorited - and especially those who reviewed. You are truly the only thing keeping this fic going! Hope it's enjoyable, and please let me know what you think!**

When I meet Kurt at the door, he is nibbling at his knuckle, the way he only does when he's upset or nervous. "What's wrong?" I ask, steadying myself against the wall to let him pass. He wanders past me, into the living room, his eyes wild. "Kurt?" I watch as he sinks down onto his end of the couch, where he's spent the last few days cradling my head and watching bad TV. "Kurt? You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

"I don't know," he says, repeating his words from our phone conversation, and I feel something drop in my stomach. I start towards him – forgetting, for the five-hundredth time, that my body is still recovering from the surgery. The room takes an abrupt spin, and I shut my eyes, willing myself to stay upright.

Kurt chooses that moment to finally turn around and look at me. "Oh my Lord, Blaine," he squeals, rushing towards me.

"I'm fine," I protest - because, dizziness aside, I am - even as Kurt hooks an arm around my right shoulder to steady me. I might not need his help, but I'm grateful for the contact - the warmth of his lean frame is the only pleasant familiar thing I've felt since the -

My entire body tenses, hard, reliving the crash even as my brain tries to avoid the word, and Kurt notices, his face suddenly sympathetic. "Sorry," I mutter, embarrassed.

"Don't you dare apologize." He collapses on the couch with me and tries to get me to lay down, but I put up a good fight and he settles for letting me lean into his shoulder.

It's a slightly awkward position for the serious talk we need to have - I can only look at him by rolling my eyes up at a ridiculous angle, but the position makes my head feel less hazy - and I find the slightly fast, fluttery thunk of his heart beneath my ear oddly calming. When Kurt refuses to start the conversation, I sigh. "You've got to tell me what's going on, Kurt. What were you doing outside?"

His eyes flick sideways. "I ran late this morning. I'm really sorry."

"Really?" I don't even try to mask my skepticism. When he looks away again with great determination, I get my answer. "You know you can tell me anything." He remains silent - I hear his pulse quickening beneath me - and I let out a ragged breath, pulling away from him slowly. "It's been too much, too soon, hasn't it?" I ask. "Not only did I crash my car with you inside of it, nearly injuring or killing both of us, but now I've been clinging to you. You've been with me constantly. You've helped me eat. You've helped me dress. You've watched me sleep in my pajamas." I make an attempt at a laugh, but it comes out like a bark. "Those are things you never should have had to do - and I understand if it's overwhelming you."

It's quiet for a second, and I blame the painkillers for my sudden difficulty breathing. But then Kurt speaks, so quietly I almost fail to hear him. "Those were all things I planned on doing when we're married one day anyway."

"What?"

"You heard me, Blaine Anderson, I'm not going to say it again. Blaine, I love you. And you need to understand a few things: one, you didn't do anything wrong and we both survived the wreck only because you kept your head. Hell, you handled it so well I didn't even get hurt." He stretches, gesturing to himself. "Two, there is nothing - and I mean nothing, including personal mentoring time with Patti Lupone - that is more important to me than your well-being. And three - I'm not sure how this happened, but after the last few days, I think seeing you in sweats and a tshirt with no product in your hair is an incredible turn-on for me."

I can't help but giggle. "Are you sure?"

"About which part?" Kurt asks mischievously, smirking. When I frown at him, he laughs. "Yes, I'm sure. You're not clinging. You're just breaking my heart by being hurt. How is the elbow today, by the way?"

"It's OK," I only half-lie. "It hurts, but they cut my painkillers way down, so it's really a good thing. At least I'm less dizzy and sleepy. I might actually be a little bit of company today," I joke.

"I have felt very Edward Cullen the last few days," Kurt deadpans. "I've got the creepily watching my lover sleep bit down. And the hair."

I reach my good hand over and run it through that hair, a shiver of satisfaction running through me as Kurt's eyes close like a cat enjoying its petting. "Lord, I love you," I say.

"I love you too," he says, and even though I know it's reflexive, I blush.

And then I'm struck with sudden inspiration. "Will you sing for me if I play guitar?"

"Are you up to that?" he asks, the picture of concern all over again.

"If you'll bring her to me, I think so."

* * *

><p>When Kurt returns from my room carrying my Takamine acoustic (awkwardly and dangerously, by the tip of the neck, like a sweater) I remember the strange way he ended up at my house - the subject he had been trying to avoid. "Kurt... What did happen this morning?" I ask yet again as he hands the guitar to me.<p>

He sighs and looks around again before he answers. "I had a miscommunication with your parents this morning. I thought I was supposed to be here earlier than I was with their schedule."

"Oh. OK," I smile. I keep forgetting that Kurt is incredibly nervous around my parents and how much they stress him out.

Kurt sits beside me again as I pull the guitar into my lap and gently, so gently drape my bad arm so that my fingers can reach the frets. "What do you want to hear?"

"How about 'Teenage Dream'?" His smile is wider than I've seen since - in a while. I start strumming the ultra familiar chords, but something sounds off. "Hang on, I think it's out of tune," I mutter, plucking each string in turn - only to hear it almost perfect. So I try again, but something is still off. I stare at my fingers on the strings - that's right - and look away switching to the next chord: wrong. I switch back and press down harder and realize with a horrible shock that I can't feel the pressure of the strings.

"Blaine?"

"Kurt, I need you to touch my fingertips." He looks at me in surprise, but leans forward anyway and presses his fingers to mine. I can see it happening before me - see the way his paler skin rubs against mine - but I can't feel it.

I pull away from him and touch the fingers of my right hand to those of my left. The right fingers react as usual, but in the left there is nothing. I grab at the neck of my Takamine again, trying to strum out the chords, but when I look away they come out wrong.

Kurt watches, his mouth slightly agape, and I don't shock him when I say, desperation tainting my voice, "I can't feel my fingertips."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This will be a very long author's note. Please bear with me.**

**Firstly, I cannot thank all of you who have alerted, favorited, and, most of all, reviewed, enough. Your kindness is overwhelming.**

**I'm sorry that I have not updated in such a long time. There was a very tragic incident shortly after my last update in which a very good friend of mine lost his boyfriend in a car accident very similar to the one in this fiction. I was not directly involved, but the shock of losing a peer combined with the eerie circumstances really shook me, and my heart has absolutely broken for my friend. It has made writing this fiction incredibly difficult, and while it is no real excuse, I hope that you will understand why it's been so long.**

**Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think and review. **

I've heard people talk about snapping. Breaking down. Losing their minds. They say it with a little sadness tinting their voice but a sense of nonchalance, like they're reminiscing about the dog they loved as a kid being run over by a pick-up.

I don't know how they do that, because I'm snapping - breaking down - losing my mind - and I'm not sure I'll ever recover.

Blaine is still gazing blankly into his half-curled hand, his mouth slightly open. He has just confided to me that he cannot feel the tips of his fingers.

There are offensively loud gasps rending the air. I stare, aghast, at Blaine, horrified and upset and hoping he won't pass out from the strain of -

My vision fades a little, and I realize the too-deep breaths are mine.

And I just... break.

I'm panicking because my recovering boyfriend has lost feeling in his fingers, and I'm panicking because I've got to help him somehow and I'm panicking because his parents do not want me here at all and how will I explain that I called 911 because the son they couldn't be bothered to stay with has discovered a sudden paralysis -

A fresh burst of panic makes its way from my chest to my extremities, carrying numbness with it - at the word "paralysis", at the fact that I'm breaking down when Blaine needs me to be strong, at the fact that we were in a car accident a week ago and we both could have died -

There's a loud metallic noise, the scream of tearing tin - "Kurt?" Blaine's voice is quiet and thin. It takes everything I have to look at him, but when I do he is staring down at my hands. "You're bleeding -"

A sharp flashback of the crash: the same words coming from his mouth, his arm hanging awkwardly from his side, tears everywhere -

I look down to my hands. Blood oozes around what remains of an aluminum can I don't remember picking up. I'm aware of the pain, suddenly, able to feel every inch where the ragged metal has sliced my flesh like so much mango. A drop of red trickles onto the couch as I start to shake.

Blaine whimpers. "I'm so sorry, I'm so -"

"Stop," I gasp.

"You shouldn't be dealing with -"

"STOP." Blaine's eyes go wide and I push myself off the couch, careful to avoid my cut hand. The tone of my voice shocks me - abruptly strong and direct. "Give me just a minute."

I stride to the Andersons' bathroom - I've gotten familiar with it in the past few days but I'm still flying blind as I rummage through the cabinets, awkward and clumsy with my left hand. Eventually I land on the first aid box and set it on the counter. The mangled and bloody Coke can makes a solid noise as it bounces off the bottom of the plastic trash can - a few shards of metal remain in my palm, and I tug them out gingerly before tossing them, too. I blink at my reflection as I run hot water over the cuts, wincing, somehow terrified by the authority in my voice and the hard set of my jaw – and by the fact that I haven't cried.

When I walk back into the living room, my right hand bound with pinkish gauze, Blaine is still staring into the distance, the fingers he can't feel lying useless against his thigh. "You can feel everything but the tips of your fingers, right?" I ask.

Blaine looks up, surprised. "I - yes. Yes - Kurt, are you okay? I couldn't stop you, you couldn't hear me -"

"I need to call your mother." I don't give him a chance to reply before walking out of the room. I know that if I do I'll lose what little foolhardy courage I have.

I debate in front of the phone for a minute. I could call Dad and Carole - they would help me deal with this, Carole's a nurse, she would know what to do - but it's just delaying the inevitable. My fingers graze against the 9 key over and over, but even if I go straight to the emergency authorities I'll still be stuck explaining to the Andersons. So I pull the too-festive sticky note off the refrigerator, scribbled with Mrs. Anderson's bold handwriting, and punch the number in.

"_Yes_?" I lose my words for a minute. The woman has caller ID – you answer the phone for your sick son with "yes?" "_Blaine_?"

"Mrs. Anderson?" I manage.

"_Kurt?_"

"I'm sorry to be bothering you but Blaine cannot feel his finger tips – "

"_What are you doing in the house, Kurt? I thought we told you to go home!"_

"Blaine cannot feel his fingertips," I repeat, louder, drowning out her indignation. "Should I call 911, or can I drive him to the hospital?"

"_What do you mean he can't feel his fingertips? Is it the painkillers?"_

"I don't know, but he needs to go to the hospital so we can find out. Ambulance or me?"

"_Well you can't even check him in, you're not family – "_

"I will meet you at the hospital." The words seem to come from someone borrowing my voice. When the woman on the other end of the line makes a noise of protest, whatever force is ventriloquizing me just repeats the solid phrase, then clicks the phone off without a moment's hesitation.

Blaine hasn't moved when I sweep back into the living room. "Come on." My tone is still demanding, but quieter, kinder. My boyfriend looks bewildered as I slide an arm beneath his and help him off the couch.

"Kurt –"

"We're going to the emergency room."

"But I'm fine – "

I stop abruptly and have to compensate for the quick movement to hold Blaine up, staring him in the eye. "We're going to the hospital."

He doesn't have anything to say to that, so we go hobbling out the door side by side.

* * *

><p>Blaine spends the entire drive to the hospital giving me nervous, sidelong glances, like he's afraid of what I'll do next. I grip the steering much like his father did days earlier until the sharp pain in my right hand reminds me that I've done enough of that.<p>

I ask him how he's feeling other than the fingers. The response is an unconvincing mewl. I'm certain it stems more from my outburst than any actual pain – or at least that's what I tell myself, unwilling to think about the boy beside me suffering any more than he already has.

When I drop him off at the emergency room door – "_stay here_" – and go squealing around the lot to park, I spot the Andersons' Escalade. I roar up next to it and burst out of my SUV almost before the engine is turned off. I'm halfway across the parking lot when I hear Mrs. Anderson's voice, breathy with exertion.

"Kurt! Where is Blaine? Where's my baby?"

I barely keep down the scoffing noise as she - and her husband - run up behind me. "I dropped him at the door."

There's general cooing, and then we're at the door and Blaine's parents are smothering him. We flood into the waiting room as Mrs. Anderson checks her son out to confirm my words. Mr. Anderson physically separates me from Blaine as Mrs. Anderson rattles off what she knows of his symptoms to the receptionist.

When the nurse calls out "Anderson?" I head for the doorway she's standing in.

"No," Blaine's mother barks. "Go home."

"But Blaine -"

Mr. Anderson looms over me dangerously. "Thank you for getting him here, Hummel. Now get out."

"Blaine -" I plead, watching my boyfriend with begging eyes, knowing he will ask me to stay -

What has broken inside me shatters when he refuses my gaze, clinging to his mother as they head into the triage room.

* * *

><p>I have trouble just making it to my Navigator, and once I'm inside I can't go anywhere. I'm crying too hard to see, feeling every miniscule emotion since the wreck explode out of my body. I realize it's the first time I've cried since I was sitting in the remains of the Z3 four days ago. I cry until I'm afraid I won't survive the next breath-stealing wave of sobs. I'm splintering, just like Blaine did in the minutes after the crash.<p>

_But we survived._

A tiny voice comes out of nowhere. It's unwelcome and upsetting and I try to silence it in a fresh deluge of tears.

_We survived!_

It does no good. The voice is jubilant, and insistent, and has no place here, where I'm losing my mind -

_One jerk of the wheel to the right – into the telephone pole instead of grazing it. Blunt force trauma. Passenger side. The nose of the car smashing up into legs and spine in a symphony of metal –_

I sob harder, the scene the voice is narrating playing out so vividly I feel a moment's twinge up my back, then absolutely nothing –

_One jerk of the wheel to the left – over the hill. Rolling, once, twice, three, four, times. Into the fence, upside down. The shatter of glass, the crack of bone, the roof crunching in on neck and skull – _

"STOP!" I scream aloud. I realize I've closed my eyes. My hand is bleeding again, the gauze reddening. I struggle to even my breathing. I've gone crazy. I'm yelling at voices that don't exist –

_We survived._

It's just a whisper this time, but I finally hear the words and recognize them as truth. We survived.

The Andersons don't matter.

Blaine is going to be okay. He has to be.

We survived.

**A/N: We will find out exactly what is happening to Blaine in the next chapter. I promise I didn't mean to leave a cliffhanger again - this is just how the story needed to be told!**


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